


Comfortable Liar

by KatieHavok



Series: Breeding Lilacs [59]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, F/M, In a way, No Fluff, Pre-Movie 1: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Smut, Toxic friendship, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, World War I, toxic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 20:10:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16353455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatieHavok/pseuds/KatieHavok
Summary: He freezes, recognizing the unique pitch of her voice, and curses himself for a fool before ducking inside.Leta Lestrange looks up from where she’s mending a cream-colored stocking by hand, her face impassive. “Took you long enough,” she chides.*Newt, Leta, and an exploration of war.





	Comfortable Liar

**Author's Note:**

> So, before anyone screams about me making Newt OOC for this to work, a few things: 1.) the person you are between 17 and 21, which are approximately Newt's ages during WWI, is not the same person you are at 30 and beyond; 2.) war changes people. Period; and 3.) this was written before the recent flurry of information about the characters in CoG, during a time when the fandom, in general, wanted to portray Leta in a negative light. This portrayal is something I fought against, _but_ the muse loved the idea of her being a toxic, borderline abusive person without her even realizing how awful she was, and this story is the result.

*

There is someone in his tent.

Newt lingers outside the flap, choking on the scent of cooking fires and spent gunpowder while willing his heart rate to calm. From behind the cheap canvas comes the rustle of fabric and the sound of someone delicately clearing their throat.

He freezes, recognizing the unique pitch of her voice, and curses himself for a fool before ducking inside.

Leta Lestrange looks up from where she’s mending a cream-colored stocking by hand, her face impassive. “Took you long enough,” she chides.

Newt feels his upper lip curl like an angry dog before he ducks his head and toes off his boots. “I wasn’t expecting company,” he manages, opening the shank of his boots to allow them to air before carefully inspecting his feet. “You’ll have to forgive me for not rushing to attend to your every need, Your Majesty.”

The woman perched on the edge of his cot sets aside her mending to fix him with a look. “You were never particularly good at sarcasm.” She sighs. “Can’t you at least pretend to be happy to see me?”

He straightens too quickly, causing his head to swim. “No,” Newt bites out, allowing every ounce of bitter regret to color his tone. “I’m sorry, but I cannot. You forfeited any right you may have had to my happiness when you lied.”

“At _your_ urging,” Leta says and tips her head to the side before tutting. “I could have handled it myself, you know. Father wouldn’t have hurt me _that_ badly.” An expression Newt cannot decipher flickers across her face before she smooths it away. “I wouldn’t have been banished, at any rate.”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘disowned’,” Newt bites out as he unwinds his puttees and hangs them to air. He removes his belt and loosens his jacket before risking a glance at her. “And of course, you’re right. The more fool me for not seeing it at the time. You’ll be happy to know that I’ve since realized the error of my ways.” He flicks his fingers toward the tent flap in dismissal before meeting her eyes. “Go. You have no power here.”

Leta laughs bitterly, the sound as lonely and hollow as the rattle of wind through autumn leaves. “I never had any power over you,” she says, crossing the tent to him, her hands going to the throat of his shirt to wrestle with his tie. “I’m glad you realize that now, at least. Still, it doesn’t excuse—”

Newt catches her wrists, hard enough to feel the fragile bones grinding against each other when he drops his head to meet her eye. “What. Are you. Doing?”

Leta looks gratifying scared. Not terrified but...alarmed, as if she’s underestimated his mettle. Newt feels a surge of vicious pleasure at the thought, keeping the inevitable looming guilt at arm’s length only through sheer force of will.

“I just want to help you,” Leta finally says. There’s a new rawness to her voice, and Newt takes a moment to look at her, really _look_ at her thin, raw-boned face, the way her chapped skin seems to cling to itself, for the first time. He doesn’t like what he sees.

He releases her all at once and refuses to feel bad for hurting her. “I don’t need your help.”

Leta rubs her wrists with a pointed look before reaching for his shirt. He allows her to unfasten his buttons, stoically enduring a touch which entices and repels in equal measure and closes his eyes.

“There’s nothing wrong with needing someone,” Leta says once she’s tugged his shirt out of his trousers. “It took me a long time to realize that, but I did...thanks to you.”

“You’re a few years too late for that now,” Newt says hoarsely and takes her wrists — gently, this time — when she makes to push the shirt off his shoulders. “Why are you _really_ here?”

Leta sighs, and Newt opens his eyes to find her watching him with a tragic expression. “Because I _hurt_ ,” she says finally. “And I miss you.”

He transfers his hands to her elbows, allowing her _in_ against his better judgment. “What happened?”

She shakes her head and Newt refrains from pushing her hair away from her face. “I can’t talk about it,” she murmurs, “but I would warn you that your part in this war may be coming to an end.” He opens his mouth to ask for clarification and she covers it with a finger, effectively silencing him. “That’s not a threat. It just means they will likely be discontinuing the Dragon Corps.”

Newt digests this for a moment before shaking it off. “Is that what hurt you?” he asks doubtfully.

Leta blinks, finally pushing the hair out of her eyes. “No. Yes. It’s part of it, but it’s more of an...all-over thing.”

A snatch of doggerel echoes through Newt’s mind, and he smiles slightly when he recognizes this as part of a game they had played as children. “Can you show me?” he murmurs, squeezing her arms reassuringly. “Will you show me where it hurts?”

Her hand moves from his shirt to her elbow, pointing to it. They hold their breath when Newt reaches for her, bending to press a light kiss to her arm, inhaling the scent of bitter cordite that clings to her. “Better?”

Leta points to each of her wrists in answer, and he kisses both of them in turn, murmuring an apology he isn’t sure he entirely means. She exhales roughly and hesitates before pointing to her throat. He swoops in to press his lips to her skin, sighing a little at the bird-like fluttering of her pulse.

Her fingers climb up her jaw to her lips, lingering there defiantly. Newt takes a moment to search her face, looking for even a trace of derision or disdain before kissing her — lightly, sweetly, re-familiarizing himself with the unique tang of her mouth against a surge of bittersweet nostalgia.

Her tongue brushes across his teeth and he parts them with a sigh, allowing her entrance as she clings to his shoulders, her small frame trembling against him.

“Newt,” she breathes, and he cradles her face to wipe away the tears staining her cheek. _“Newt.”_

“I know,” he murmurs, gasping against her lips when her hands settle on his hips, propelling them backward. “I’m here.”

His thin cot creaks tiredly when they settle upon it, trembling, eager hands peeling back layers of uniform, underclothes, and stockings to press together, skin to skin.

“I’ve missed you _so_ much,” Leta sighs when he covers her with his body.

Saying that he has missed her would be a lie, so Newt says nothing. Instead, he trails his lips over her throat to her chest, her breasts, her gumdrop nipples, ignoring the scent of sweat and adrenaline flooding his nose. The plane of her stomach is as taut as he remembers, the hollow between her thighs even sweeter, made warm with need. He tastes her there, fleeting brushes that feed the flames until Leta reaches down to tug his hair.

“Come back up here,” she pleads. “I need you.”

Newt nips a path up her body until she can wrap her arms and legs around him, trapping him. He sinks into her mouth when she offers it to him, groaning as she rocks her hips before guiding him home. This, too, is the same — taut and warm and seemingly made just to fit him. He rests his forehead against her neck, panting, until she impatiently rakes her fingernails over his back, the pleasant sting inspiring him to move.

What begins slow and tentative swiftly turns fierce and primal. They fuck like beasts there on his narrow cot with his teeth bared against her skin, the trickle of fluid that isn’t sweat grounding him. Leta bites his shoulder and chest hard enough to leave bruises, growling into his skin when he nips the ledge of her jaw, her ear and throat before clutching her with renewed intensity.

He lifts his head to watch her face as she unravels beneath him, memorizing the look in her eyes and the sounds she makes until her head rocks back and she cries out. He slows in sheer awe of her reactions until she leers and claims him in a kiss.

“I love you,” she says when they break apart, causing him to shiver.

Newt reaches for her hand and squeezes his eyes shut. His own end inches closer, gathering just beneath his skin. Leta coos and rocks her hips to better receive him. She threads their fingers together and clutches the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging hard. He comes with a ragged moan, the throb of his own heartbeat loud in his ears.

Leta holds him until his senses return. He blinks away the sting of sweat and tears and lifts his head to find her watching him carefully, her expression guarded. Newt exhales shakily before untangling their hands and beginning the process of separating their limbs, until he perches on the edge of the cot, running unsteady fingers through his hair.

“This can’t happen again.”

The words hang between them, heavy with meaning. Leta slants a skeptical eyebrow as she stands. She makes no attempt at modesty when she gathers her scattered clothes before using his handkerchief to clean between her thighs.

“I was never very good at listening to what other people thought I should do,” Leta says eventually and flicks her wand to smooth out her wrinkled underthings before tugging them on. “What makes you think I’d listen if you refused me?”

“Because I would leave,” Newt says as levelly as he can manage. “I’d make myself as invisible to you as possible.” He summons his own underpants with a flick of his wind. “This should never have happened.”

She laughs bitterly. “You can’t even wait until I’m out of the tent before regretting being with me,” she says while snapping on her stockings with short, angry movements. “Merlin, you _are_ a pig.”

Newt pauses in the process of tugging on his trousers to meet her eyes. “If I am a pig,” he says evenly, “then it is only by association.”

Leta pulls air over her teeth in a hiss. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snarls, sparks shooting from the end of her wand when she stomps her foot. “You have no idea—”

He stands abruptly, his own wand half-raised in defense. “You’re right, I don’t,” Newt allows, raising his voice when she makes another feline sound, “but I’m also not especially interested in finding out. You got what you came here for, Miss Lestrange — it _is_ still Lestrange, isn’t it? Or shall we add adulteress to your list of transgressions? — so _please_ leave me in peace.”

Her smile brings him up short, as cold and brittle as a winters sunset. “It’s funny you should ask that,” she says, frost dripping from every word. “Funnier still you think of it only _after_ using me like a whore!”

Newt feels his own lip curl in anger when she taps the third finger on her left hand, drawing his attention to a wide platinum band emblazoned with firestone—

The air leaves Newt’s lungs, causing him to clutch the tent pole as he sags because—

_He recognizes that ring._

Leta laughs, and in his shock, he sees the cruelty he had willfully ignored for so long, pared back and made ugly in revelation. Leta’s hand moves down to touch her lower belly, her lips curling in presumed triumph. “Could be you’ve given me a gift after all,” she says in a sing-song voice. “Perhaps you’ll have to reconcile with your family sooner than you’d like.”

It takes every ounce of Newt’s innate defiance and all his military training to keep his roiling emotions from showing. “I think you’ll find, Miss Lestrange,” he says, hardly recognizing the sound of his own voice, “that you’ve _grossly_ underestimated me.” The smile slips off her face when he flicks his wand toward his footlocker, opening it to Levitate out a bottle of potion.

He knows she recognizes it when she scowls, sudden color flooding her cheeks. His answering smile feels all wrong on his face, revealing too many teeth and not reaching his eyes. “There’ll be no unintended _‘gifts’_ for you, I’m afraid.”

“I hate you,” she seethes, each word landing like a punch in the stomach.

“Seems you loved me well enough when I was bullocks deep,” he muses, ruthlessly biting the inside of his cheek when she sputters. Her wand comes up but it’s a half-hearted gesture, all the defiance seeming to drain out of her when she makes eye contact, gauging his sincerity before looking away.

Bitterly pleased, Newt raises his own wand in clear threat before gesturing toward the tent flap with his chin. “Now leave, and don’t ever come back.”

“I’ll have your beloved dragons killed,” Leta says conversationally. “I’ll see you discharged without honor and your family name dragged through the mud. I’ll ensure—”

Newt flicks his wand, and though her mouth keeps moving, no sound comes out. He smiles when she glares. “Your threats are as empty as your womb,” he says, manfully suppressing the urge to laugh at her outrage.

How had he ever fooled himself into believing he loved this woman? His new acceptance of her base nature is like an unfathomable burden lifting from his shoulders, and he uses the blessed silence to straighten his clothing before standing.

Her eyes track his every movement as he gathers her mending and haversack before tossing them at her, not particularly caring if she catches them. “Get out.”

Leta’s mouth moves again, her knuckles white on her wand, and it has the feel of a curse. He watches her lips, getting a sense of her words until she falls silent and smiles, all glittering teeth and cruelty. She defiantly holds his gaze when she backs out of the tent with all the poise of a queen, until the canvas falls between them with a finality that makes Newt shiver, scarcely able to believe his own daring.

“Did you just—?” he asks himself aloud, blinking.

There’s no answer, of course, and he snatches a deep breath before breaking his paralysis to sprint across the tent. He throws back the closure to find the camp all but deserted, no sign of Leta or anyone else. It’s eerie enough for him wonder if perhaps he hadn’t dreamed it all, at least until he looks down. There are two distinct sets of footprints in the churned up earth, his own and a smaller, daintier pair.

Adrenaline fills his mouth with the taste of copper when he stumbles over to his cot, which offers the fetid aroma of sex and her signature perfume, before his legs collapse beneath him.

_Good show, old man,_ he thinks, and the thought is absurd enough to cause him to first chuckle, then snort laughter until tears stream down his cheeks and he’s left as shaky as a newborn dragon, his spirit clean of Leta’s taint at last.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a few prompts on Tumblr, asking both for some of Newt's pre-Tina encounters, as well as my thoughts on the Newt/Leta relationship.
> 
> Want one of your own? Find me on Tumblr [@katiehavok](http://katiehavok.tumblr.com/) and drop me a line!


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